


Hit Heaven

by fictionalcandie



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Desk Sex, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Office Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/pseuds/fictionalcandie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't planned and it probably wasn't okay on several levels, but that didn't mean it wasn't well past amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit Heaven

It shouldn't be happening.

He hadn't meant it to happen.

He doesn't care how it happened.

Okay, that one's a lie.

Even with Danny straddling his thighs, one of his hands on Danny's bare — naked, not covered by one of those godawful stuffy _haole_ shirts, god, _bare_ — back and the other in Danny's stupid hair, Danny's mouth messy and frantic on Steve's jaw and down his throat, Steve still cares.

He didn't think they'd get here at all.

Well.

Obviously he doesn't mean _here_ , because if Steve had his choice — _when_ Steve has his choice, because if this is happening once, there's no way Steve's not going to make sure it happens again — this would be happening on a bed (preferably _his_ bed in his _house_ and not a lousy sleeper-sofa in a rat-trap— er, _perfect_ apartment, because Steve knows how to take care of his body even if _certain other people_ say otherwise), and Steve would be getting Danny flat on his back and naked _all over_ and he'd be taking his time.

But on top of the desk in Steve's office, the blinds pulled down crookedly and the door possibly ajar and both of them streaked with blood that's (mostly) not theirs?

Steve was pretty sure they'd definitely never end up _here_ , even if they _did_ end up in that big bed where he sleeps and dreams and wakes in a cold sweat and, more often than the others, jerks off (fast and hard, his fist tight around his cock and his mind a blur of never-happen possibilities, or slow and wet and messy while he rocks down on his own fingers inside him, pants and heaves and sees stars) thinking about Danny. Thinking they would — that they _could_ end up here — would have been ridiculous, torture and childish and—

Yeah, all right. Who's Steve kidding?

He always thought they'd end up here, even if here is a massively bad idea because Reserves and Five-0 or not Steve's still Navy and Danny's still HPD with a daughter and an occasionally-vindictive ex, and the door's still not closed all the way and the lights are still on and it's still the middle of the day and it's still a _really stupid risk_.

But Danny's knees are on either side of his hips, Danny's thighs splayed wide and Danny's ass a reassuring weight on Steve's legs, and Danny's hands are moving restlessly over Steve — like when he talks, like when he bitches, like when he fucking _breathes_ — and Steve would kill people for this. In a heartbeat, with no regret, would — could — _will_ kill people, to have this. To have Danny, warm and heavy and _alive_ in his lap, against him, making throaty noises that ring in his ears.

Steve wants Danny any way — _every way_ — he can get him, and if that means accidentally ambushing him in Steve's office while they were just supposed to be changing their shirts so they looked respectable (and not like serial killers, thanks) after a successfully closed case where Danno got shot at and Steve got knocked off of things, well.

That means Steve's being a bad boss, or something, because Steve's never yet turned his back on an ambush. Especially not one that involves sweaty Danny-skin under Steve's hands and Danny's (hopefully totally forgotten) tie in an abandoned blue squiggle on Steve's office floor and the taste of Danny's mouth on Steve's tongue.

Above Steve, Danny gasps, rocking in close so that the cloth-covered jut of his erection presses Steve's belly, and Steve's own cock jumps eagerly as he rocks his hips up in response.

"Jesus," says Steve, tipping his head back while Danny's mouth descends on his collarbone.

Danny chuckles against Steve's skin, all moist breath and delicious dirty promise, licking his way back up to that spot behind Steve's ear. "Also answer to 'Danny'," he says, low.

Of course, he's gonna be a smartass in bed. Or on a desk. Probably wherever Steve could get him, he'd still be mouthing off— And shit, _there_ 's a mental image worth having. Steve drops a hand down to Danny's ass and jerks his hips in sharply, groans and throws out a mental plea for stamina when Danny bites down hard on the side of Steve's neck — stinging, hurting, leaving a bruise, fuck, _please_ leaving a bruise.

It feels good, feels like heaven and hell rolled up together, it's nice and hot and frenetic and Steve wanted it, wants it, but it's not perfect and they probably shouldn't no matter what Steve's dick is begging for (Danny, any part of Danny, his hand or his cock or his mouth or his ass, just _Danny_ , flush against him and _wanting_ ), and somehow even better for it.

But Steve's still sitting on his desk, which means Danny's still _kneeling_ on it, his bad knee on the unyielding wooden surface, bent, twisted oddly and probably going to get messed up again while he and Steve get each other off, and if that happened he'd be all _hurt_ and— "Sofa?" Steve manages to ask, on a gasp.

Danny's hips, a perfect fit in Steve's hands, continue rocking into him.

"No," Danny growls decisively, and he gets his own hands on Steve's shoulders and _shoves_.

Suddenly Steve is lying full out on his own desk, feet barely touching the floor, with Danny poised over his pelvis, and there are strong, expressive hands working his belt and his cargoes open, brushing his cock through the fabric and driving him breathlessly crazy because _those are Danny's hands_.

Danny isn't talking, as he pulls Steve's pants out of the way and frees Steve's cock to the cool air of the office, gets his hand wrapped around it, hot rough skin jerking him just right. He isn't talking, but the hand not on Steve's cock is moving — up over Steve's stomach and across his chest, tracing a scar then thumbing a nipple and drawing a hissing moan, stroking Steve's shoulder and part-way down his arm, gripping hard right over a tattoo, then coming back up to curve around Steve's neck as Danny leans down to lick his way into Steve's mouth.

It's unexpected, it's hot, it's _insane_ , this quiet Danny, and Steve needs to get his hands on more than a khaki-covered hip and a fistful of golden-streaked hair. He needs to get his fingers around _Danny_ , touch his cock and spread him out, open, get him so fucking _open_ and make him know that he's _Steve's_ , make him _yell_.

He fumbles at Danny's fly, hands bumping Danny's on his cock while he tries to free Danny's. His mouth swallows the hitching, moaning noises coming out of Danny when he succeeds and Danny's dick is — finally, fucking _finally_ , why would he ever wait for this or think he shouldn't have it? — curving up hard in Steve's palm. Danny's dick is thick, flushed, slick at the head and partway down the shaft as Steve gets a good grip and starts stroking, sets to making Danny lose it.

"God," Danny whimpers, sudden and broken, turning his head so their cheeks push together, Danny's constant three-day beard rasping Steve's lips. 

Both their hands are working, quick and dirty and mostly graceless, not enough room between them and neither willing to move away. Steve arches up, his cock bumping Danny's belly and leaving a shiny trail across his skin, the dusting of hair there rubbing over the head of Steve's cock and he wants to die, wants to come his brains out, wants to never leave this moment.

"Danny," he gasps into Danny's mouth, as Danny jerks his hips down hard, fucking his cock into the circle of Steve's hand and over the smooth cut of his hipbone. "God, Danny, come _on_."

Slamming a hand down onto the desk by Steve's shoulder, Danny arches up, throws his head back, muscles standing out starkly as he swallows hard and shakes, crying out— "Steve. Steve, Steve, Ste— shiiiit, oh my _God_ , Jesus fucking— _Steve_!" And he comes in a dirty wet splash over Steve's body, his fingers tightening involuntarily on Steve's dick as he convulses.

Pulse roaring in his ears, Steve watches Danny's eyes roll, sees the hectic flush bloom on his face and down his chest, feels the come coating his hand as he keeps jacking Danny, through the orgasm and past it, when Danny starts to actually _quiver_ and whimper, and his fingers go slack and Steve's just rutting up against Danny's belly because Danny lacks the coordination to return the favor, and it's mean, Steve knows it's mean, to keep at Danny like this — keep Danny's cock tight in his hand, drag him to the edge and _hold_ him there when he's gone over, like this — but the way Danny makes wordless noises and his nerveless hands flutter over Steve, touching everywhere, is amazing and fascinating and addictive and even as Steve shudders, his come mixing messy and disgusting and hot with Danny's on their bellies, he doesn't care. It was gorgeous and shattering and fucking _hot_ , and Steve wanted it and Danny didn't tell him to stop, and— and— and— God Steve can't even think to justify himself, just knows he wanted it and finally, at last, he had no reason not to take it.

They lie there in a heap, dripping with sweat and come and in some places spit, flushed and heated and delirious with orgasm, Danny limp and barely propping himself up. Steve doesn't let go of Danny's dick, even once he manages to work his other hand up and tunnel his fingers through Danny's hair.

"Fucking goddamn _Christ_ ," Danny slurs, into Steve's ear.

Steve can't help it. He fucking _beams_ at his office ceiling as he say, "I also answer to 'Steve'."

**Author's Note:**

> This work can also be read [here on LJ](http://gailsauce.livejournal.com/78480.html) or [here on DW](http://gailsauce.dreamwidth.org/78102.html?mode=reply&style=site).


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